


What They Don't Know

by bookjunkiecat



Series: People Will Talk [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Breakfast, Daddy Kink, Dog Groomer Greg, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Oral Sex, Politico Mycroft, Sugar Daddy, age gap, happy ending guaranteed, rescue dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:28:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29078631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Nearing his fiftieth birthday, Mycroft is quite happy with his life. But he does have a bit of a thing for his dog's groomer, the handsome young vet student, Greg. He's planning on asking him out, but Greg beats him to it. What starts out as a first date becomes something more.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mystrade - Relationship
Series: People Will Talk [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2135193
Comments: 47
Kudos: 149





	1. Pretty Paws

**Author's Note:**

> So I've finally written my first age-gap, sugar daddy, daddy kink fic. Coulda been dirtier. This is mostly feels and blow jobs. Next time maybe I'll get naaaasty. Y'all let me know what you think of this iteration of Mycroft and Greg--I think they're yummy and I had a hoot writing them!

Pretty Paws was possibly the stupidest name anyone could choose for a mobile pet grooming service, and merely thinking it made Mycroft snort. But their level of professionalism, skill and the obvious care they exhibited for animals more than made up for this. He’d been using them for two years for Cherie.

Cherie. His darling, beloved, lifesaving rescue poodle. On the surface of things  _ he  _ had saved  _ her  _ life by rescuing Cherie. The truth, however, was that Cherie had given him a level of much needed love and warmth which had been sorely lacking since his last long-term relationship had ended a few years prior. Anthea, with typical tartness, had told him he was a nicer, less-scary bastard since Cherie entered his life. As always, she had smacked the matter dead on the nose. Mycroft could still leave heads of nations trembling in their expensive shoes, but in his personal life he’d gained a measure of tranquility, and, he thought, sweetness.

Being a very busy man, Mycroft prioritized matters, and one of those was the twice monthly grooming of Cherie’s lovely, curly black coat, and the trimming and painting of her adorable toenails. Rather than take her to and from appointments, Mycroft had early on (through Anthea’s auspices) located and secured the services of a company which would come to the pet owner’s abode and handle matters in their well-equipped van. All of their staff was more than capable of handling Cherie (a sweet, well-behaved angel), but Cherie’s (and Mycroft’s) favourite groomer was Greg.

Greg Lestrade, twenty-eight, friendly, personable, and physically so gorgeous it made Mycroft’s back-teeth ache from grinding them in an effort to keep from blurting out any number of inappropriate things. He was a smooth, urbane man when it came to his lovers, and wit and elegance had always stood him in good stead. But let Greg, in his pet-hair-sprinkled scrubs appear and Mycroft’s good sense deserted him. Let him catch a whiff of Greg’s middle-of-the-road body wash and he was weak-kneed. Greg had only to smile his lovely, sunny smile for Mycroft to want to gaze into his sparkling brown eyes and offer him the world.

Needless to say, Greg was heavily requested by the Holmes household.

As the familiar, snazzily painted Pretty Paws van rounded the corner, Cherie pranced in visible excitement. Mycroft was more composed, but inwardly he was equally as thrilled. Today was the day he was going to ask Greg if he’d like to join him for a drink. It was his fiftieth birthday soon, and he’d decided that it was in order for him to give himself something he’d truly enjoy: time with Greg. It wasn’t a date. He wasn’t an old fool. Greg was twenty-one years his junior, lovely enough to entice anyone, and most likely dating someone age-appropriate. An overture of a romantic nature from Mycroft would be unwelcome. (Mycroft firmly ignored the numerous occasions on which Greg had outright flirted with him and the fact that his last lover had been twelve years younger.)

“Hullo, Cherie, sweetheart!” Greg cried from the open window as he expertly parallel parked along the kerb. Sending Mycroft a smile, he greeted him, “Hello, Mycroft, sweetheart.” Much as Mycroft tried to convince himself otherwise, it was true that Greg’s voice warmed, dipping into a deeper register as he spoke to Mycroft.

_ I shall not blush,  _ Mycroft thought firmly, and willed his body to obey him. His cheeks stayed perfectly cool, because he was a man of self-control. “Greg,” he greeted him dryly, “Droll as ever, I see.” Greg was just being brash, cheeky...he was from the East End, after all. It was practically coded into his DNA. Mycroft sighed silently and brushed a hand over his neatly trimmed beard; he smiled blandly as he released Cherie’s dark blue leash to Greg.

“Join us?” Greg offered, opening the double doors at the back of the large van. “How’s your week been?”

“Fair enough,” Mycroft allowed, climbing into the van and sitting in the client jump-seat by the door. He stretched out his legs, tugging at the seams of his casual trousers, arranging them to his liking. To begin his weekend in comfort he had changed from his more formal work wear, a trifle old-fashioned three-piece suit, into the khaki trousers, tan, brown, rust and French blue checked button-down, and v-necked cashmere jumper in a coordinating shade of blue he was sporting. It was for comfort, true, but it was equally true that he liked to look nice for Greg’s visits, and this outfit, while stylish and age appropriate, didn’t make him look like an old fuddy-duddy.

“Looking sharp tonight, Mycroft,” Greg complimented, hooking the lead to the frame above the bath. He gave Cherie’s ears a fondle, “Let’s trim those nails before we have a bubble bath, eh, sweetheart?”

She stood like an angel while Greg efficiently trimmed her nails, and then he began to soap her, massaging her coat, while he and Mycroft chatted. Mycroft excused himself and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke out of the open door into the warming spring night. Greg sniffed and sighed, he was trying to quit and always played up his sorrow when Mycroft smoked. “Sorry,” Mycroft laughed, waving the smoke out the door. 

“‘s alright,” Greg assured him, toweling Cherie dry before he turned on the low-noise dryer and began to dry and fluff her coat. She stood with eyes half-closed, fluffy ears flying in the warm air. The two men laughed at her look of pleasure. “That’s the way to be about things,” Greg said, “Not bothered. Just enjoy the good times.” He gave Cherie a little one-armed hug, and she politely licked his cheek. He cooed at her and wiped his cheek against the shoulder of his navy scrub top, “Already forgot that old nasty life before you came to your daddy, huh, girl?”

“I hope she has,” Mycroft said seriously, though his tone was light enough. “I hope I’ve made her life half as wonderful as she’s made mine.”

Greg’s eyes were tender and sparkling as he glanced at Mycroft, “Oh, she told me so.”

Mycroft’s mouth curved into a smile, “Did she?”

Nodding with wide, earnest eyes, Greg assured him, “Oh yeah. We’ve got a special relationship, her and me.” He paused, and Mycroft, seeing the nervousness creep into his eyes, had a flash as to what he was going to say. It happened as if in slow motion, with no time to stop or divert it. He wouldn’t have even if he could. “I’d like to have a special relationship with you, if, ah, that’s somethin’ you might be interested in?” He gave a self-deprecating little grin, “Or at least a dinner?”

He’d started alright, but lost confidence slightly toward the end. His eyes never left Mycroft’s though, and Mycroft’s stomach swooped. He was suddenly as giddy and flushed with excitement as if he’d been an untried youth. Unable to stop the smile spreading over his face, he carefully crushed out his cigarette. Holding Greg’s eyes with his own, he let his smile grow wider, “I’d love that, Greg.”

Greg’s joy was a beautiful sight to behold. “Yeah?”

“You beat me to it, as a matter of fact,” Mycroft confessed with rueful humour. “I intended to ask you to join me for a drink after work.” 

“You were gonna ask me to date you?”

“Well,” he allowed, as Greg moved Cherie to the other side of the van and opened his grooming kit, “I was going to ask you to join me for a drink. No pressure for anything else.” He laughed lightly, “Frankly I didn’t think you’d be interested in anything further with me. I am a bit older than you.”

“I like older men,” Greg said frankly, then added, smile devastating, “and I really like  _ you.” _

“I like you too, Greg,” Mycroft said softly, hearing the fondness in his own voice. “I’m going to enjoy getting to know you better.”

By the time Cherie, nails painted raspberry pink to match the new bandana around her neck, was dancing on the pavement next to Mycroft, smelling of vanilla and camomile, the two men were exchanging mobile numbers. “I’d love to go out with you tonight,” Greg said for the third time, “but I’ve been at work all day, I smell like wet dog and I...well, I want everything to be perfect for our first date.”

Mycroft ran fond fingers over his cheek, following the growing curve of Greg’s pleased smile, “I’m not looking for perfection, but I do want you to be happy. We’ve waited this long, I suppose one more night won’t kill either of us.”

Greg’s eyes were terribly bright, and he ran his tongue briefly over his lips, “Speak for yourself, gorgeous,” he murmured hoarsely.

“Beast,” Mycroft breathed, stepping back. “Go now, or I’ll ravish you here, dog smell and scandalized neighbors be damned.”

Laughing delightedly, Greg gave him a little wave and hopped up into the van. Tooting a jaunty tune on his horn, he pulled away and Mycroft and Cherie watched him go. She gave a little distressed whine and Mycroft sighed, “I know just how you feel, dear girl.”

  
  


  
  
  
  



	2. Just Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg joins Mycroft for dinner at a swanky restaurant.

Scarcely more than twenty-four hours later, he was watching as Greg strutted across the expensively carpeted dining room of one of the most exclusive restaurants in London. He was no one famous, powerful, or influential, and by no means were his modest button-down and trousers in competition with the well-tailored set in attendance, yet his natural beauty and confidence drew eyes to him.  _ He could devastate my good sense, my bank balance and my heart, if he so chose,  _ Mycroft reflected. He wasn’t worried; Greg wasn’t the sort of man to hurt anyone purposefully, and further, it had been a long time since Mycroft had made any wilfully self-destructive decisions. No, with Greg he knew what he wanted and he was fairly certain it was what Greg wanted too. 

“Christ,” Greg whispered, sliding into his seat as he joined Mycroft, “This place is posh as hell.”

Mycroft regained his own seat and smiled, “Not to worry,” he said at a normal volume, “like anything posh it is more about one’s attitude than anything else. You belong here Greg, and never let anyone tell you differently.”

Greg tilted his head, “You really believe that? That I belong here, I mean? With you and all these rich geezers and their trophy wives.”

Mycroft laughed out loud, attracting every eye in the room. “Please,” he said, delighted, “never change, Gregory.”

“Gregory,” Greg mouthed, and gave him a cheeky smirk, “‘ve I done something naughty? Only time anyone ever called me Gregory was when I was in for it.” He folded his arms on the table, leaned forward, a smile pulling at one side of his mouth, “‘m I in for it later...daddy?”

Mycroft dropped his napkin to his lap and shifted. “I was correct in thinking, the first time I saw you,” he said conversationally, “that you would wreck absolute havoc on my good sense.”

“I guessed right then?”

“This is a discussion better held in private so that we can hash out both sides,” Mycroft said imperturbably, gesturing subtly to the wine waiter to approach, “but yes, in essence. I gather you don’t object?”

“Hardly. Order for us, will ya? Only wine I’ve ever had comes from the co-op.”

The waiter’s eyelashes flickered, but he was too well-trained--and well-paid--to react other than that. Besides, the flat glint in Mr Holmes’s eye told him his tip would diminish to a single copper if he so much as sneered. The waiter, whose feet ached, and whose name was Danny, not Hugo, drank his own wine from the co-op, anyway. “Sirs,” he said smoothly now, and took Mr Holmes’s order with professionalism. Disappearing to the wine cellar he reflected that for once the bit of arm candy that came into the restaurant might be an all right sort.

  
  



	3. Palaces and Paupers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg gets a look at Mycroft's place and it does not go as Mycroft expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had A BLAST writing this chapter.

Dinner was wonderful; the food and wine, were, of course, impeccable, as was only to be expected in such a place. Frankly, neither man noticed. They ate and drank as a background accompaniment to their absorbing conversation and the flickering flame of their mutual attraction. Greg was a shameless flirt, but Mycroft held his own. By the time their shared plate of chocolate mousse arrived, Mycroft was stroking one finger over Greg’s palm, and Greg was trailing the tip of his shoe up Mycroft’s calf. Spooning up the mousse, they barely took their eyes off of one another, and the sexual tension was palpable. Leaving dessert unfinished, they joined hands and Greg tugged Mycroft through the restaurant, smiling over his shoulder. The sight of his white teeth denting his lower lip made Mycroft’s blood pressure rise.

Waiting on the pavement outside the restaurant, Greg stepped close and tucked his hands into the pockets of Mycroft’s light overcoat. “So,” he murmured, eyes on Mycroft’s lips, “back to yours then?”

“Unless you live alone.” Mycroft smoothly handed a tip to the valet and opened the door for Greg before rounding the Mercedes he rarely drove.

“Only if you count three flatmates as ‘alone.’”

“Ah, hardly.”

“Yours it is then,” Greg grinned, and put his hand on Mycroft’s thigh. Mycroft covered it with his own hand, and Greg turned his hand palm up, lacing their fingers together. “Music?”

“This is fine,” Greg sighed, laying his head back against the headrest. He turned his head so that he was looking at Mycroft’s profile, backlit by the changing city lights. “God, you’re handsome.”

“Do you want me to spank you when we get home?” Mycroft asked with mild interest, “Or are you lying for some other purpose?”

“Oi,” Greg didn’t sound phased by Mycroft’s chiding. “Is it lying to tell my boyfriend I think he’s handsome? ‘s the truth.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Too soon?”

“I’m hardly a boy.”

“No,” Greg’s tone dropped into something warmer altogether, “You’re a man, thank god.”

Mycroft didn’t answer, but squeezed his hand and concentrated on driving. Parking in the mews garage where he stored his Mercedes, he locked both it and the car bay, and escorted Greg along the passageway to the house. Cherie came running to meet them, the tap of her nails on the tile echoing in the large kitchen. “Blimey,” Greg blurted, “I think your kitchen is the size of my entire flat!”

“And I never cook and rarely eat at home,” Mycroft said guiltily.

“You’ve got all these gadgets and you don’t cook?” Greg sounded scandalized.

“It would be far more truthful to say I  _ can’t  _ cook. Unless one counts Pot Noodles and tea.”

He judged from Greg’s appalled expression that it decidedly did not count. After pouring some biscuits into Cherie’s food bowl to distract her while they headed for the bedroom, Mycroft led the way up the short flight of stairs to the first floor. Grinning at the disgruntled muttering he could hear behind him, Mycroft flipped on the light and strode into the bedroom, shedding his overcoat as he headed for the walk-in closet. Greg’s tirade came to an abrupt end when the splendour of Mycroft’s bedroom struck him. Mycroft heard a ‘whee’ and turned in time to see Greg belly flop onto the giant bed. 

Laughing, he tugged at Greg’s ankle, “How’s the water?”

“Fine,” Greg’s voice was muffled by the silk velvet duvet and incredibly luxurious mattress. “Fucking great, actually. Jesus Christ. Rich blokes.”

Leaving him to wallow in what Mycroft congratulated himself was indeed a very nice bed, Mycroft hung up his overcoat and sat down on a padded bench to remove his shoes and put shoe trees in them. One did not simply ‘toe’ off hand-made Italian leather loafers and kick them under the bed. Even when the bed was very, very nice. 

“Fuck me _ up!” _ Greg’s shout made Mycroft jump, and a cufflink went flying from his fingers to disappear under a row of orderly suit trousers hanging from a low rail.

“Good Lord,” Mycroft gasped, half in real startlement, and half in pretend shock, “What?”

“This fucking closet is the size of my fucking bedroom! That I share with another bloke!” Greg glared at him.

“I’m...sorry?”

Pointing a menacing finger at him, Greg stalked closer, scowling. “You are never coming over to mine.”

“O...kay.”

“Smells like feet and curry half the time,” he thought he heard, as Greg disappeared back out the closet door.

“Greg?”

“What?!”

“Are you leaving because my house is nice?”

“Nice!” Greg snorted and stomped back into view to glower at him, hands on hips. “This, Mycroft Holmes, is a fucking, fucking... _ pied-a-terre _ out of-of fucking Wodehouse or something! ‘Nice’ is the house I grew up in. Christ!” Throwing his arms up in exasperation he disappeared again, yelling over his shoulder, “No I’m not fucking leaving, you dim-witted wanker!”

Seized with helpless laughter, Mycroft collapsed onto the bench and shook silently, trying to stifle his amusement. Greg Lestrade. God help him, he was going to be powerless against the man’s charm. When Greg bellowed, “Bugger me sideways, lookit this bath! Is that--is that a soddin’  _ bidet? _ ” Mycroft whooped.

  
  



	4. Just How Gay Are We Talking Here?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kink negotiation, jealous Greg.

Eventually Mycroft regained his self-control and Greg lost some of his ire. 

Pinning Mycroft onto the bed, he settled himself comfortably on Mycroft’s thighs. Resting his weight on his hands, which were currently holding Mycroft’s wrists to the mattress, he proceeded to interrogate him. “This house...you live in the whole thing, don’t you?” When Mycroft replied in the affirmative, Greg’s cheeks bunched like a squirrel that had got hold of too many acorns. He growled an expletive, and frowned heavily at Mycroft, as if he were holding him responsible for a grievous wrong. “I thought you lived in a-a-a three room self-contained flat or something!”

“Why?”

“Well...you stand there in your khakis, smokin’ Rothmans, chatting about the weather and dog rescues and the best microbrews, and what am I supposed to think? That you’re a millionaire?”

“I like khakis and Rothmans,” Mycroft observed mildly. This was obviously the wrong thing to say.

“You’ve deceived me.”

“How?” He asked in exasperation. “I’m some evil bastard just because I have money? There are lots of  _ other  _ reasons someone might call me an evil bastard, but money has never been one of them. Yes, I have a certain amount of wealth. No, I am not, as you accuse, a millionaire. I inherited this house from my maternal uncle and the death taxes nearly crippled me. I make a very nice paycheck as a political consultant but I won’t be buying you any private islands.”

Greg was momentarily diverted, “People do that? Just buy people islands?”

“Oh yes. My personal assistant, Anthea--you’ll love her, she likes to send me up too--was offered a private island on three separate occasions during one year alone.”

“She must be  _ very  _ good-looking,” Greg said, looking suspicious.

“She is. I’m also very gay, darling.” Mycroft wiggled his hands and Greg let them go. Mycroft used them to cup Greg’s face, “Look, I won’t deny that I live a life of power and privilege, and it might be dazzling to some. I can wine and dine you, Greg, but ultimately I want to spend time with you. In bed as well as out. Most of the time, when I’m not at work--whether in the office, or at a business dinner--I’m at home on the sofa with Cherie, watching television or reading the newspaper or fucking _ napping _ , because I’m an  _ old man!” _ His voice rose to a bit of a shout by the end.

“Oh,” Greg murmured, suddenly looking puckish, “I dunno about  _ old.” _ He leaned over and gave Mycroft the tiniest of Eskimo kisses with the tip of his nose. Mycroft’s eyes nearly crossed, trying to read his expression. He absolutely did  _ not  _ so much as think of pursing his lips for a kiss. “So...just how gay are we talking here?”

He shrieked like a banshee and began laughing hysterically when Mycroft attacked his side with mercilessly tickling fingers. 

“You brat!”


	5. Here Be Sex, Y'all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title says it all. They do it. 
> 
> Oh fiiiiiiine. Greg learns what it means to have an older lover. One who is...skilled, patient, amazing.

They’d been kissing for what felt like hours, and may well have been. Mycroft had quite lost track of time. All that existed was Greg, and his mouth, his hands, this bed, and the soft silence surrounding them, broken only by murmurs and gasps. Although he’d been hard for some time, Mycroft was in no rush; but when Greg’s gasps began to sound a trifle desperate, and his hips began a tiny rocking motion against his own, Mycroft broke away. “Come on, let’s get the rest of our clothes off and get comfortable, hm?”

Greg flung off his clothes with hasty, youthful abandon, seemingly unworried about what his nude form might look like to Mycroft, seeing it for the first time. Nor should he be worried; the man was jaw-droppingly beautiful. Mycroft, halfway out of his trousers, paused. “I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve this particular moment in my life, but once I find out, I’ll be making the appropriate offerings to the correct deity.”

Laughing abashedly, Greg raised one arm, scratching the back of his head. “Go on with you. Charmer.”

Shedding the rest of his clothes, Mycroft walked on soft feet to take him in his arms. He raised Greg’s chin with one hand and looked deep into his soulful brown eyes, “If no one has ever before told you how very lovely you are, it shall be my privilege to rectify that.”

“Mycroft,” Greg murmured, and kissed him, almost shyly. He tucked his face into Mycroft’s neck, his lips tickling Mycroft’s skin, “‘m not sure I’ve ever met anyone like you. Dunno what  _ I’ve  _ done to deserve this, but I’m glad, whatever it was.”

He hugged the younger man, smoothing fond hands down his back. Greg’s skin was warm and silky, deliciously furred, and this close, the smell of his “date-night” cologne was intoxicating. Humming contentedly, Mycroft squeezed him a bit closer, and kissed his shoulder, “How would you like a massage, darling?”

Pulling back, Greg looked at him in surprise, “A massage?” His tone said  _ now? _

“Mmhm. You’ve had a long week, what with work and school. Let me relax you.” He quirked a teasing brow. “I assure you my intent is not to get into your pants.” He dropped a glance at Greg’s naked body, “Although I’ve already succeeded in ridding you of them.”

“A massage sounds great,” Greg said, biting his lip. He smiled shyly, “Don’t you wanna, y’know, get to it, though?”

Mycroft sighed deeply, “I see your past lovers have much to apologize for. But as they’re not here, let me atone.”

Soon he had Greg sprawled face up on the bed, the duvet pulled safely back. When Greg had fussed about getting massage oil on the sheets, Mycroft assured him he could afford a new set, should they be needed. Spreading his palms with self-warming oil, Mycroft took one of Greg’s nicely shaped feet in his hands and began to coax groans from him. Smiling at the sound of Greg’s pleasured enjoyment, he worked tension from Greg’s toes, his arches, moved loving fingers up his ankles, his calves, where he paid tender attention to a knot he located in Greg’s left calf. Savouring the pained groan which soon morphed into moans of delight, he stroked up and down Greg’s thighs, avoiding his groin, tempting though it was. Taking Greg’s left hand in his, he worked his fingers, palms and up his arms, across his upper chest, and down the other arm. 

“Myc’ft,” Greg slurred, opening lids which seemed to be weighed down, “Gawd.”

He laughed indulgently, pressed a fond kiss to Greg’s lips, returning for another, deeper kiss, when Greg protested. “Feel good?”

“So good,” Greg sighed, managing to lift a hand to stroke Mycroft’s cheek. “You’re amazing. C’n you show me how to do this? Wanna make you feel this good.”

“Gladly. But for now, turn over for me, I’m going to do your back.” Taking a moment to admire the sheer perfection of Greg’s arse, Mycroft applied more oil to his palms and sleeked them up and down Greg’s back. Working his way from his shoulders down, he had to rein in his mounting desire. He truly wanted to make Greg feel cherished, but he was also driving himself mad. As he rolled Greg’s toes between his fingers, he took a steadying breath. “How do you feel?” Greg grunted wordlessly into the pillow, and they shared a laugh. “That good, eh?”

“Bloody amazing,” Greg sighed, rolling onto his back. He regarded Mycroft with bright eyes, “You’re a magician. If you ever get tired of political consulting--what the fuck ever  _ that  _ is--you have a bright future as a masseuse.” He bit his lip again, eyes bright, yet shy, “Hope I’m the only one you massage naked though…”

“Oh no,” Mycroft corrected him, lying on his side next to Greg and petting his chest, “My massages are only for you.” Dropping a kiss on Greg’s lips, he whispered into his mouth, “So is this.” Kissing him deeply, he kept his hand over Greg’s heart, felt it speed up. Smiling, he nibbled his way down Greg’s throat, delicately licked the slightly sweaty hollow of his throat, enjoying the taste of Greg’s skin mixed with the edible honey-flavoured oil. Feeling Greg’s pulse race, and the anticipatory bob of his Adam’s apple, Mycroft slowly kissed his way down Greg’s chest, spent time lavishing attention on Greg’s nipples, until the younger man was clutching Mycroft’s hair and moaning his name urgently. Pressing a soothing kiss to the slightly abused flesh, he nuzzled Greg’s silky treasure trail, following it down over the soft skin of his abdomen, smiling against the outie belly button which rose and fell with Greg’s rapid breath.

“God,” Greg whispered pleadingly, “Mycroft,  _ please,  _ stop teasing me.”

Taking pity on them both, Mycroft dipped his head and swiped his tongue daintily through the moisture gathered at the crown of Greg’s cock. Sliding his foreskin delicately down with his fingers, he stroked Greg’s shaft with his other hand, as he swirled his tongue around the moisture, savouring Greg’s hoarse cries, his fingers tangled urgently in Mycroft’s hair. Greg tasted amazing, and the weight of him, his length and girth, might have been made to fit perfectly in Mycroft’s mouth.

“Fuck,” Greg grunted, “I’m gonna come  _ so _ hard, Mycroft!”

Slowing his hand, Mycroft pulled back, licking his lips. Greg’s eyes were pools of darkness in the lamplit room, and he lay sprawled on the bed like a young god in an ancient fresco. He was the personification of temptation. Pressing a soothing kiss to his hip bone, Mycroft smiled with intent. “You  _ will _ come hard, darling, but only when I say so.”

“Fuck,” Greg repeated; his head fell back against the pillow with a thud, and he let go of Mycroft’s hair to clutch desperately at the pillow with both hands, as if he would rend it in two. 

By the time Mycroft, voice wrecked, rasped at him to come, Greg had tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. Going stiff, he obeyed, cock jerking hard as he came. Mycroft took him in his mouth, swallowing hungrily, drinking in the sound of Greg’s broken cries. Licking him clean, he stroked Greg’s shaking thighs with loving hands, as he lapped at the pearly drops dotting his belly. “There, darling boy,” he purred, settling in next to Greg and pulling a sheet over them. “You did so well for me.”

Greg shuddered at the praise, and made a half-hearted effort to put his arms around Mycroft, but seemed to find his muscles unwilling to cooperate. Mycroft obligingly arranged them so they were entwined, and drew Greg’s head down to his chest, tucking Greg’s disordered curls under his chin. “I’m very happy right now, Greg. You’ve made me very happy.”

“But--you didn’t--I mean, did you?” Greg gave a little wriggle, felt Mycroft’s erection firm against his thigh, “Oh. Don’t you want me to--”

“Time enough for that,” Mycroft said, kissing Greg’s head, “Just enjoy that afterglow. That’s all I want right now.”

Greg was silent for a long while, his breathing evening out as he came down from his post-orgasmic haze. “‘ve never met anyone like you,” he said at last. “You’re--you…” He tilted his head back, regarded Mycroft solemnly as he nervously rolled his lower lip between his teeth, “Don’t break my heart, okay?”

Mycroft smoothed his hair back, cupped his cheek in his palm and kissed Greg with soft tenderness, stroking his tongue with his own. “Never, darling.”

  
  
  
  
  



	6. Fry Ups and Happily Ever After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blow jobs and breakfast make for a VERY good morning after their first night together.

When Greg woke in the morning, several hours after Mycroft had slipped from bed, he came trailing downstairs, wrapped in a sheet. His hair stood on end and his eyes were sleepy. “Hey,” he croaked, “whattimesit?”

Mycroft glanced up from his newspaper to the welcome sight of a warm, sleep-rumpled Greg. “About half past ten.” He smiled as Cherie gave up watching for birds out the French doors and bounded over to Greg, who gave her a sleepy greeting.

“Whyn't you wake me?” Greg asked, slipping up behind Mycroft’s bar stool and putting his arms around him. He rested his chin on Mycroft’s shoulder. “Coulda had morning sex.”

“It’s still morning,” Mycroft pointed out with humour. “Besides, lovely as that sounds, you were lovelier still asleep in my bed. I couldn’t bear to wake you. Would you care for some tea, or coffee?”

“Coffee, please.” Greg sank onto the other stool and watched groggily as Mycroft moved efficiently around the kitchen, grinding fresh beans and operating the espresso press with ease. “Thought you didn’t cook.”

“This is coffee preparation, an entirely different kettle of fish.” Mycroft brought him the steaming glass and watched with pleasure as Greg took an appreciative, humming sip. “I’m afraid my skills for breakfast prep go no further than making toast.”

“You just read the paper like some hedge fund bloke and rush out of the house with a belly full of tea ‘n bile, don’t you?” Greg regarded him with exasperation.

“Guilty as charged.”

“C’n see I’ve got my work cut out with you.” Greg drained his coffee and stood. “I’ll make you a proper breakfast.”

“There’s nothing in, I’m afraid. I have bread, butter, milk and four different kinds of takeaway leftovers of varying ages.” He reached for his mobile, “I’ll order takeaway, what would you like?”

“We’re placing a grocery order to be delivered,” Greg said, replacing his mobile with Mycroft’s, “There’s the app already pulled up. Get the makings for a fry up. I’ve gotta piss. Then I’m gonna take a shower.”

“It says it will be two hours,” Mycroft objected, looking up from the app. He watched Greg’s sheet-clad backside head toward the stairs, Cherie following like a traitor. He understood. He wanted to be with Greg too. 

“Good,” Greg’s voice floated down the stairs. “Gives us time to have shower sex. I owe you a mind-blowing blow job. Come on then, get a move on, daddy.”

Mycroft completed the order with alacrity and went bounding up the stairs. 

“Thank god your water pressure seems to be tireless,” Greg joked as they toweled off after their extremely long shower. He smirked, “I was afraid the hot water would run out before your stamina.” He massaged his jaw in pretend pain.

Mycroft slipped into a toweling robe and handed Greg a fresh towel. “Was it too much?”

Greg stepped close, wrapping his arms around Mycroft and locking his fingers together in the small of his back, “Not a bit of it, treacle,” he murmured, rubbing Mycroft’s nose with his. His brown eyes danced, “Now let’s go downstairs and let Cherie out to run in the garden while I show you how to cook a good brekkie.”

“But I might burn something,” Mycroft whined.

“Then you can wash and slice the mushrooms and lay the table,” Greg laughed, tugging at his hand. “C’mon, sunshine, you’re not gettin’ out of it that easy.”

Cooking with Greg, he discovered, was a great deal of fun. In nothing but a pair of Mycroft’s pyjama bottoms and his own plain white undershirt, Greg was a marvel of efficiency. The weather had turned warmer, though the breeze coming in the open French doors was invigorating. As Mycroft made a fresh pot of tea and brewed another espresso for Greg, Cherie ran in and out, begging prettily for bits of bacon. “You’re spoiling her,” Mycroft murmured, sipping his tea.

“Wonder who I learned that from?” Greg teased, flashing him a smile. “Go’on, sweetheart, tell us the state of affairs in the world.” He nodded at the newspapers Mycroft had left spread on the bar.

Mycroft bundled them up and pushed them down in the bin. “Let the world go hang,” he said, pulling out the little used plates and cutlery. “I’ve got all I need right here.”

Greg blew him a kiss, “You smooth talker, you’re not gonna be able to get rid of me. Lines like that...that big shower upstairs, mindblowing sex... _ you.”  _ He smirked, “This kitchen. Might never leave.”

_ Please don’t _ , Mycroft thought,  _ stay. Move in with me. _

He didn’t quite believe it himself, those words which trembled on his lips, although he felt the desire to speak them in his heart. But it was true. Within a week Greg was staying at his house all the time. Within a month he’d moved in for good. 

Mycroft had no idea that he would have to win over Greg’s suspicious mum, his dazzled younger sisters. That he’d finally win her seal of approval at Greg’s graduation from veterinary school when Mycroft was so proud he wept.

He was unaware that he’d have to battle with Anthea for pride of place as to which of them was Greg’s favourite person. Mycroft won, but Greg teased that it was only by a margin.

Neither did he know that the two of them would be the talk and the scandal of the political scene--not that either he or Greg cared a jot. And all the naysayers were proven wrong when Greg never strayed, were proven wrong when Mycroft never grew tired of him. Eventually some of them even grew to accept Greg in a magnanimous fashion, as if conferring a great boon. Not that he gave a damn, but he did find it quite funny to see them unbend, to watch them come oiling up to him when they thought he could curry favour with Mycroft. Not that it had ever worked, but some of the dimmer ones never stopped trying.

Mycroft and Greg, that sunny spring morning, had no idea that before the year was out they would have adopted an eight month old apricot poodle they named Schatzi. Or that they would travel to the Maldives for their six month anniversary, and come home three weeks later, tanned, aching with tiredness from the frenzied lovemaking, and starry-eyed because Mycroft had asked a very important question, and Greg had said yes. They didn’t know that they would go back every year, and stay in the same overwater bungalow and make love until dawn.

They didn’t know how happy they would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've really enjoyed writing this and I hope that any readers enjoyed reading it. Thank you for taking the time to dip into my little tale.


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